past stalls piled high with plump olives and pyramids of vibrant spices, I’m enveloped in the heady aroma of cumin, cardamom and cinnamon. But it’s in the streets around the market
A
where the best bargains are to be had, and that’s where I go in search of pomegranate syrup — perfect for adding a sweet-and- sour tang to salad dressings — and Iranian saffron, the spice once worth more than gold. I get my caffeine hit standing with the
locals at Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi, a purveyor of rich Turkish coffee since 1871, finely ground and still brewed in copper pots. And I buy my breakfast from an elderly man weaving through the crowds with a tray laden with simit — a round, bagel-like bread — balanced precariously on his head. As I bite into its crunchy, toasted-sesame coated shell, I discover a soft, sweet-and- savory interior. By turns the capital of the Roman Empire,
the center of Byzantium and Ottoman Constantinople, and the only city to span two continents, Istanbul’s been attracting visitors for centuries. It's crowded, chaotic and creative, a sensory overload of sights, sounds and smells, and where Europe meets Asia, not only geographically but culturally. And it’s all reflected in its eclectic cuisine, from sleek restaurants to street food.
36 • postcards
s I explore the passageways under the embellished arches of the 17th-century Egyptian — or Spice — Bazaar, and walk
My journey begins in Sultanahmet, the
city’s historical heart and the showcase of its Ottoman and Byzantine roots. Some of its most quintessential sights are here — the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, Basilica Cistern and Topkapi Palace — displaying Turkey’s finest decorative arts in their dazzling tilework, carved cedar wood and vibrant stained glass. The city’s also an age-old hub for trade.
The Grand Bazaar, close to the Egyptian Bazaar, was built in 1461, and is said to be the world’s oldest and largest covered market, a labyrinth of more than 4,000 shops selling everything from glittering gold to exotic ointments and richly embroidered kaftans. There are sweet treats, too — jumbles of
pastel-colored lokum, better known as Turkish delight. But I’m told to buy it from a city institution, Haci Bekir, a short walk away. The wooden-front shop is emblazoned
with the name of the founder, Ali Muhiddin Haci Bekir, who started the company in 1777. It’s still run by the sixth generation of the same family, and inside it retains its old-world charm, with glass cabinets filled with decorative lokum boxes and a counter lined with brass-lidded jars brimming with tempting candies. They produce around 30 types of lokum
— there’s even a new sugar-free line. I sample sugar-dusted yet tangy orange, creamy vanilla, and a two-in-one mint- and-lemon flavor, before finally settling
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